Dizziness overtook me. When I opened my eyes, I was in a speeding car. Through the window, I saw my own reflection—no, not mine. Hers.
The woman holding me was still Rosemary, the same trafficker as before. The old woman driving, Sally, was their leader.
I clung to the seat, recalling my previous life.
For ten years, as I suffered in captivity, one question haunted me. Why?
Why did my sister do this to me? Why did she betray me?
I never got to ask her.
Because when I was finally found, she took back her body before I could even speak.
She whispered in my ear, her voice cold, accusing.
"Sister, you watched me die when I was taken. You deserve everything that happened to you."
"You were indifferent, so now you must pay the price."
But I had never been indifferent. I had begged her not to go with the traffickers. I had pleaded.
She ignored me. She only wanted the candied haws.
Yet, in the end, she blamed me for "watching her die."
And after reclaiming her body, she played the victim, crying in our parents’ arms. "She caused it! She wanted me gone!"
At first, they didn’t believe her.
Until she led them to my bed.
Under my pillow, they found a diary—one she had written, mimicking my handwriting.